Pinnacle of Survival
by WraithDecember
Summary: A young wanderer and self-proclaimed mercenary who calls himself 'Ghost' ventures into the capital wasteland from the north. Down on luck and caps, he fights to survive while struggling with radiation sickness, trying to earn enough caps for treatment before its too late.
1. Chapter 1

08.13.2277

Blood red skies descended upon the capital wasteland. A massive dust storm swept through the bleak lands, blotting out the sun with a crimson tempest of rusty sands. A lone wanderer wrapped a ragged green scarf tight around his face as he braced himself against the furious wind. He was as a thin reed bending to the gusting air. He put on his cobbled together goggles made of leather straps and glass scavenged and shaped from old bottles. The stubborn sands worked their way into the edges of his homemade goggles, further impeding his sight. Upon the horizon was a great tower, he found a frequency on his radio that played samba and jazz, it seemed to be emitted from its heights for the signal grew clearer as he neared. The dust storm mired the horizon and then consumed it in a great curtain of roiling red. The distant tower of brownstone that had emitted the glow of electric light in the night afore lay past the ruined townscape before him, beyond a steep ravine and a rock strewn ridge past that. He'd never make it there in this storm, he was only likely to lose his way or fall down a steep drop and break his bones. He instead sought shelter in the ruins to wait out the tempestuous dusts that blew in from the east.

He came to a disheveled brick townhouse with cracked wooden siding, boarded up windows, and a sunken black shingled roof. The building looked as tired as he felt. He reached for his crowbar strapped to the side of his bulging rucksack. He went to break open the door to find it unlocked, though jammed from the shifting of the foundations and slanting of its frame, the door gave way easily with a solid shove. Once inside he closed it shut behind him, resting his back against its splintering hull as he pulled his scarf down from his mouth and took in a deep breath of air. He shook his head vigorously, tossing sand from its black unkempt locks that hung down to his eyes. His face was dusty with sand which clung to his meager stubble upon his boyish visage. As soon as he collected himself he retrieved his gunmetal grey revolver from its holster.

It was dark inside, with no light from the windows and the dusts muting the sun's rays it took several moments for his eyes to adjust to the dimness. He cleared his nose and sniffed the air. He knew the bitter scents of mole rats who'd chew their way into abandoned buildings to breed, the musky odor of half mutated wild dogs, the foul stench of Yao guai, but he could smell none of those here. Amid the ruinous living room he saw no signs of any dangerous wild life that might have taken up residence here, seeking shelter no different than he. There were no droppings in the corners, no chewed up piles of bones, no rad-roach holes, or molting shells left by rad-scorpions. His lanky form hunched over in relief, he seemed to be alone. He holstered his pistol once more and set his rucksack and hunting rifle down on the grey remains of a couch. The heavy rucksack sunk into the moth eaten ruin, even after two hundred years the synthetic material used to make the couch still remained, only recently had moths mutated enough to eat their way into such materials. Once free of its weight he sat down and breathed easy. His green eyes were sunken, his body was thinning and weakening by the day. He ran a hand through his hair, clumps pulled out in between his fingers. His radiation sickness was only getting worse. He tossed the fallen hairs aside and ignored it, there was nothing he could do.

Once he gathered his strength he began combing the house for items to scavenge. The tower he was headed for had electricity and so he began to look for items they might need or use. He pulled the pilot light from the stove and stood on a stool to remove the light bulbs from the sockets in the ceiling. He tore open part of the wall with his crowbar to find copper wiring and pipes. He then went upstairs into the rooms to search for anything of value. The shelves were full of dusty desiccated books, swollen and ruined from previous rains that dripped through the ceiling, he opened one up to find its ink and run down the papery pages in a cascade of black and grey, almost artistically so, whatever information it once held was lost. He dropped it carelessly from his fingers and moved on. He came to a room with a display case. It held in hard translucent plastic casings the first copies of Grognak the Barbarian. He laughed aloud a gave a smirking grin.

"Issue one. Lair of the Virgin-eater." He spoke as he unlatched the rectangular case. It showed a muscular bronze skinned and black maned Grognak wielding a great sword against a scaly serpent while buxom blonde coiled her hands around his leg as she lay frightened. He sat down on the floor with it, flipping through the pages intently. With all he had endured lately, it made him forget his troubles for the moment.

He suddenly noticed the light changed from dark to darker, obscuring the words on the pages. He looked up to stare down the barrel of a gun.

"Play time's over, kid." Spoke the man with the gun. He was hale and blonde bearded with cold grey eyes, dressed in a worn black leather jacket and patched up jeans.

The young man froze, unable to move or breathe.

"This here gun is a M1911 colt .45, U.S. Army issue, magazine fed semi-automatic, full badass gun. It'll blow your brains out from here to kingdom come if you so much as blink when I don't tell you to. Now, blink if you understand."

He blinked.

"Good. Now breathe." The young man gasped and glanced up into the gunman's eyes, "You're not from here are you kid? Tell you what, since you're an out-of-towner I'll do you a favor and let you off with a warning instead of a hole in your head. Now, give me all you got and this doesn't have to get messy." The gruff man said with a voice as scratchy as sandpaper.

"I'm dying... Rad-poisoning. I need enough caps to get medicine. If I give you everything, I'm as good as dead anyway."

"Cry me a river, we're all dying. Do you want to die today?"

"Wasn't planning on it… shitty weather for a funeral, no one would be able to make it." The wanderer spoke in a weak yet defiant voice that dripped with sarcasm.

"Unbuckle your belt and drop your holster."

The young wanderer began to reach for his pistol's grip.

The gunman smacked the wanderer's head with the barrel of his colt.

"Fucking listen! Do not touch the gun; just drop it with the belt. I don't want you trying to be a fucking hero and I don't take risks. So no funny business and don't press your luck, my trigger finger gets real itchy when people don't listen to me."

"What... what'd you say? I'm sorry… I wasn't listening." The young man murmured with a straight face, looking the gunman in the eyes.

"Are you fucking with me?" The gunman growled.

The storm outside picked up, the winds tossed the shutters of an un-boarded window in the next room to bang loudly against the hull of the townhouse. The gunman turned to the noise. As soon as the gunman averted his eyes, the young man lurched back and reached for his pistol. It got stuck in the holster as he tried to draw it. The gunman turned back to face him and leveled his gun at the young wanderer's head.

"You dumb son of a bitch." The gunman snorted as he pulled the trigger.

The wanderer winced, but a click came instead of a bang.

"A fucking jam?" The gunman said as he looked upon his prized gun.

The wanderer freed his revolver from its holster and raised it.

"No. Wait!" The gunman shouted, holding up a palm in a pleading gesture.

The wanderer fired the revolver three times, fanning the trigger. One round hit the man's thigh, the next punched into his gut, and the final round went through the right side of his chest. The gunman groaned, recoiling in pain as he tried to pull back on slide of his pistol's upper receiver to clear the jam. The pain drove him back, he slammed gasping against the wall where the blood of his exit wounds had splattered brightly. The sands that had worked their way into the colt's upper receiver ground noisily as the gunman once more tried to charge the pistol, attempting to clear the jam in futility. The wandered stood up and wrenched the colt .45 from his assailant's hand. He tossed the pistol across the other side of the room as the man slumped down against the wall. He stood over him, the tables had turned; the gunman looked up to him with hollow eyes as he slowly shook his head in disbelief. He put the barrel of his revolver in the gunman's face.

"This here gun is a revolver, it shoots ammo my dad called .32s, that's about all I know about it. Oh, and it doesn't jam… because it's a revolver." The wanderer said, mocking the man as he lay dying.

The gunman groaned.  
"Cry me a river. We're all dying." The wanderer said with a deadpan expression in response to the gunman's moans.

"… just finish me off, you blind-firing cocksucker… I don't want to take a week to die." The gunman pleaded.

The wanderer raised his pistol to the man's skull. He suddenly stepped back and shook his head.

"I can't…" The wanderer said plainly with a tick of his tongue, lowering his weapon.

"Man the fuck up and do it!" The gunman hissed.

"No… I mean I can't waste the ammo." The wandered explained.

He rolled up the issue of Grognak the Barbarian. He sighed as he saw it was now marred with a splatter of blood, likely depreciating its value greatly, but at least he now also had a colt .45.

"You got any caps or meds on you?" The wanderer asked as he gathered up the valuables.

"You think I'd be doing this shit if I was swimming in caps? I got nothing… just fucking kill me."

The wanderer collected the comic and the pistol then walked away from the man's pleas. He shut the door behind him and toppled over a shelf to trap the man inside. He felt it was a pointless gesture, it could stop scavengers from tearing him apart and eating him alive, but then again, they might be doing him a favor. The man began to cry, muttering the name of some loved one, only then did the wanderer get chills down his spine.

"Welcome to D.C. you fuck, you won't last a week." The dying man growled as the wandered descended down the creaky steps, his legs shaking from the rad sickness.

"Longer than you." The wanderer muttered under his breath.


	2. Chapter 2

08.14.2277

The young wanderer arose from a ruined house to find the dust storm had abated. The red sands that blew in had scattered across the muted brown hues. The sky was a steely blue swathe interrupted only with a few meandering wisps of clouds. He strapped on his rucksack and pulled his bolt action hunting rifle from its drag-bag which had protected it from the sands. He'd tucked the colt .45 into his belt on the opposite side of his holstered .32 revolver. He practiced quick drawing his pistol from his holster, as his fumble the previous day had almost cost him his life. He toyed with dual wielding the guns like he'd seen on some old cowboy poster. He ate some mole-rat jerky for breakfast and prepared to venture onwards, for his immediate goal lay ahead to the west.

The tower on the horizon loomed ahead, he hoped salvation would lay in its shadow, though he knew in the wasteland nothing was free, that went double for the meds he'd need. He took a swig of stale water from his canteen and trudged on with rifle in hand. Every once in a while he'd halt and take a knee to survey his surroundings, watching out for any dangerous animals, especially other people. He clambered down a ravine, his legs gave way and he toppled over. He took the fall to his body instead of turning to absorb the blow with the rucksack as he'd delicate valuables inside. He heard the crunch of a few light bulbs; he'd packed them with some rags hoping that'd keep them from breaking in case of a fall. It took some time for him to muster the strength to pick himself up off the ground, his hands skinned and his head was cut but at least he'd all his teeth. He looked up to see a vulture circling him.

"I'm not dead yet." He said madly, glaring at the circling bird.

He crawled until he could fully rise up the other side of the ravine. He picked his way carefully through the crest of a rocky ridge, avoiding the rad-scorpions sunning themselves on the rocks, keeping his rifle at a low ready. Slow and steady he crossed out into the flatlands. There were the ruins of a several houses arrayed around the tower which had a great fence of concrete slabs, rebar, sheet metal, and barbed wire around it coming to a large gate which was likely manned by armed guards within. He passed the shadow of the Robco robot factory on his way, crossing across its vast and vacant parking lot. He approached the gate to see there was already someone else there appealing to get inside, a ghoul. He'd seen ferals before, but had never met a ghoul who'd retained his senses and so kept his distance. The ghoul had stringy red hair thinning atop the peeling skin and exposed purpling veins on his rotting head. He wore a thick black leather jacket and pants with heavy black boots crusted with green muck. On his back was slung a mean looking Chinese assault rifle. He was pressing the button on an intercom speaker and leaning in towards its flat microphone.

"You can tell Tenpenny to kiss my ass, we've got plenty of bottle caps, god damn it. Now let me in." The ghoul barked into the speaker with a throaty growl.

"For the last time, I told you Tenpenny won't allow zombies in his tower." The voice on the other end of the speaker replied.

"Who are you calling a zombie! Do I look like a feral to you?!"

"You're not human, that's for damn sure."

"Can't you tell the difference between me and a feral? Fine, I'll show you the god damn difference, you'll get yours… all of you!" The ghoul shouted into the speaker as he pounded his fist against the wall.

The wanderer stood a distance away, crouching near to a crumbling pillar on the ruinous pavilion before the gate. The ghoul passed on by, walking with an angry gate, giving him no notice. He rose up and went to the speaker, he pushed a button on its surface as the ghoul had done.

"Tenpenny doesn't want your god damn caps. Get your maggoty ass, rotten ghoul hide out of here…" The speaker hissed with feedback as the guard yelled into its microphone from inside.

"… I'm human the last time I checked." He spoke, a little winded from his hike.

"Oh…sorry about that, thought you were that damn ghoul…Ahem, you are trespassing on Alistair Tenpenny's private property, renders and official business only."

"I have goods to trade. Light bulbs, pilot lights, copper wire…"

"We've got enough junk..."

"I've got some weapons and ammo to trade too… look, I've got the rad shakes, I need some medicine soon."

"Does this look like a hospital? We're not in the business of giving handouts to mangy strays from the wastes... Find somewhere else to die."

"I can pay, I've got some caps, I can handle any jobs you need doing, just you name it. I'm a mercenary."

"Now you're talking my language… Maybe I could grant you admission if you got something to sweeten that sour story of yours, like the jingling of say… one hundred caps."

"…One hundred?" He only had one hundred and thirteen caps on him.

"Did I stutter?"

"Fine, I'll cough it up." He spoke begrudgingly, hoping he could make up for the loss by selling off what he'd scavenged from the wastes.

"Dandy."

The rusty gate buzzed as the magnetic locks disengaged. It shrieked open and he stepped inside to be greeted by a few guards in a tan combat uniform with American assault rifles. One of the guards raised his rifle as another came and pat him down, removing his rucksack and handing it off to another guard to prod through. Before him stood the man who seemed to be in charge, a short olive skinned man, clean shaven with a waxed wave of chestnut hair parted to the side.

"You guys this friendly with everyone?" The wanderer said in a nervously joking manner.

"Try something, smartass, and you can get real friendly with my girl Sally here." The head guardsman said patting his rifle which had the name 'Sally' carved in its wooden stock along with a crude etching of a nude woman.

"Don't worry, she's not my type." The wanderer said with a forced smile.

"I'm chief Gustavo, in charge of Tenpenny security, and you are…?"

"Ghost. I'm a merc from up north." He extended his hand to shake but Gustavo didn't return the gesture.

"Right…" Gustavo said unconvinced of his credentials, "How old are you?"

"Old enough." He said.

"No chems or explosives, he's clean." The other guardsmen reported after going through his belongings.

"Listen up kid, 'cause I'm only going to tell you once. You're limited to the first floor; you can trade your junk with our people in the main concourse. Keep your weapons holstered and I won't have to take them from you."

"What about meds, you guys have a doc?"

"We do, but he doesn't see to strays… Tell you what, 'mercenary', you mosey on to my desk after your done peddling your wares and we can see about that." Gustavo said as Ghost picked up his rucksack and followed him inside.  
The interior of Tenpenny tower was more lavish than anything he'd ever seen. Easy listening music spilled over the radio in the red carpeted lobby, he looked up at the high roof in awe as he beheld a glittering chandelier with crystalline jewels hanging like tear drops. The people were dressed in fine pre-war clothing. Despite some wear and tear the lobby was seemed to be in a different time, as if he stepped in from the wastes and entered a pre-war America untouched by the radiation that plagued him. He overcame his awe as a wave of nausea hit him. He gripped onto a waiting table as a well dressed woman gave him a dirty look, he was unwashed and sickly and stood out like a sore thumb. He steadied himself and pushed on to the convention hall off from the lobby where the trade store was located. He took in less caps than he wanted, the sickness made him look desperate which cut away at any negotiating edge for they knew he needed every cap he could scrape up and couldn't afford the caps or the time to simply take his junk somewhere else. Afterwards he came to Gustavo's desk in the main concourse before the elevators, flanked with two great staircases to either side.

"I've got a proposition I think you'll want to hear." Gustavo said as he beckoned him closer with a wave of his hand.

Ghost came and sat down on a green cushioned chair before the varnished wooden desk, "I'm all ears."

"We've got ourselves a ghoul problem, and Roy Philips is its name."

"The ghoul banging on the gate?" Ghost asked, Gustavo nodded

"That Roy Phillips and his crew have been trying to get inside for the past month now. It's making everyone nervous, nervous residents makes Mr. Tenpenny nervous, and I don't like when Mr. Tenpenny gets nervous, this job's hard enough without the man upstairs breathing down my neck. I think they're going to try something and soon. That's where you come in."

"It is?" He asked, wondering what it was they wanted him to do that their well armed security forces couldn't handle.

"Those ghouls are holed up in the metro under a train yard not far to the south. I can't spare the men and keep this place secure to Tenpenny's standards. Besides, Roy sees one of my boys, he'll know what's up and shoot first. They'll see you for some down on his luck scavenger and maybe they don't shoot first, then you get the drop on them. Kill them and I can have the doc set you up with meds for radiation treatment."

"Kill them?"

"Kill them, drive them off, whatever, just make sure we never see their maggoty behinds again... and I thought you said you were a merc. Honestly, you look like a runaway farm boy to me."

"No. I'm a merc. I can get it done."

"I'd hurry if I were you. It doesn't seem like you've got a lot of time to waste... Oh, and the tunnels are overrun with ferals, they spill out every now and again and we have to gun them down before they try to climb the walls, its a damn nuisance. You kill many ferals before?"

"Oh yeah, all the time." Ghost lied casually, tightening the sling to his rifle over his shoulder as he shifted uncomfortably in his seat.

"That bolt action rifle's good for the open range but in the those tunnels you might as well grab it by the barrel and use it as a club."

"Yeah, I know that. I'll go in with pistols."

"Both?"

"I got two hands and two guns."

"How are you going to aim, hotshot?"

"Got two eyes." Ghost said as he slowly started to realize what Gustavo was saying, dual wielding was for old pre-war movie cowboys, not real world wasteland mercenaries.

"Ferals don't go down for good unless you put one through their head. You'll need an SMG or shotgun if you plan on fighting your way through them."

"Oh yeah, why's that?"

"Because you don't want them to get close, so you either go with a shotgun and shoot buckshot so you can't miss, or you take an SMG with a large mag to spray in short bursts. A little advice kid, aim for the knees, then put a round in their head when they're on the ground. I've got an old 10mm SMG sitting in the armory, I'll trade it for your .45, could use a good sidearm with some stopping power."

"Just make sure you don't lubricate it with gun oil before a sandstorm, tends to gunk up and jam."

"What do I look like, an idiot? I know that, farm boy. Now go kill some ghouls and try not to die, I swear if I have to hear that Roy Phillips' voice again on that intercom..." Gustavo ground his teeth in agitation, "Just get it done. Now let me take a look at that gun."

Ghost slid his .45 to Gustavo across his desk. Gustavo took apart the .45, it was crusted with sand which he rubbed off with a rag, making sure the bolt and its springs were still good.

"It's a fine weapon. Too bad you didn't take care of it."

"It's wasn't mine." Ghost said as Gustavo noticed the bloodstain on its grip.

"You actually killed someone, kid? Maybe you won't be ghoul chow after all." Gustavo said with a raised brow as he depressed the feed tray to the .45's magazine, "This mag's spring is bad, but otherwise its in pretty good condition. Give the ammo and spare magazines you've got for it and I'll get you that SMG and some ammo."

Ghost rummaged through his pockets and set the extra mags and ammo down. Gustavo reassembled the pistol and rose up to walk to the armory. It was a dim metal chamber with steel lockers, a workbench and a tubed basin with hose that sprayed gun oil. He pulled a battered black SMG from one of the lockers.

"Remember, you'll want to test it out before you get into a fight with a pack of ferals, get used to how it feels. The recoil pulls your aim up and to the right, so aim low and to the left to drag your burst across your target. Do not try and rock the full auto setting, keep it on burst and keep your cool otherwise you'll just waste your rounds and you don't want to try and reload while you're face to face with a feral. Class is over. Now get to work, 'mercenary'." Gustavo said shoving the SMG into Ghost's chest.


End file.
